


Well Trained

by peevee



Category: Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: “Alex,” Greg says, “look at what you did.”He points at the mess of crumbs and spilled beer on the table and tries very hard to keep a straight face. “Go on,” he says. “Clean it up.”“Yes, Greg,” says Alex solemnly, and begins to bend over the table, opening his mouth.
Relationships: Greg Davies/Alex Horne
Comments: 27
Kudos: 83
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Well Trained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/gifts).



> Happy Yule, attheborder! I really liked your Taskmaster prompts, and I wanted to write you something filthy. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to R for the beta :)

“Look at that,” says Lou, as Alex winds his way through the crowd with two pints clutched to his chest, protecting them from errant elbows. “You do have him well trained.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Greg, grinning at Alex. “He really will do anything I tell him to. Watch! Do a sexy dance for me, Alex.”

Straight-faced, Alex puts the pints down on the table and does a sort of awkward wiggle-thrust towards Greg, his hand shooting out to rest on Greg’s shoulder when he stumbles over someone’s bag. Iain cackles and Lou tries to wolf-whistle, but she’s just eaten a handful of crisps and ends up spraying crumbs everywhere.

Greg tuts. “Alex,” he says, “look at what you did.”

He points at the mess of crumbs and spilled beer on the table and tries very hard to keep a straight face. “Go on,” he says. “Clean it up.”

“Yes, Greg,” says Alex solemnly, and begins to bend over the table, opening his mouth. 

“No,” says Joe, from the other side of the table. “ _No_ , he’s not -”

“Oh, he is!” says Iain, and Alex gets all the way down to the varnished tabletop, tongue extended, before Lou shrieks and pushes him away and Iain is shouting something, and Alex stumbles back down into his seat with a huge, gap-toothed grin on his face.

“You’re depraved,” Greg tells him. 

“Thank you, Greg,” he says, and Greg takes a large mouthful of beer to hide his expression. 

-

Eventually, it’s just the two of them left. The crowd around the bar has thinned, and the children have left to go _clubbing_ or whatever it is that young people do these days. Alright, maybe not Joe, who slunk off with a mumbled goodbye before anyone could try to make him have any fun. Greg is probably drunker than he should be, and there’s a thought brewing in the back of his mind. It’s a thought that he should _definitely_ keep to himself if he doesn’t want to break the weird little routine of upping the ante then backing down that the two of them seem to have got themselves into. His tongue is loose, though, and Alex is squinting adorably as he pokes around at the bottom of a packet of peanuts that Greg made him buy.

“I bet if I told you to get down on your knees and suck me off right here, you’d do it,” is what comes out of his big stupid mouth.

Alex pauses, and his eyebrows rise up, just for a moment. Then -

“Yep,” he says. “Definitely would.”

He’s completely straight-faced. He’s very good at that. Greg swallows his mouthful of beer and watches as Alex goes back to fishing peanuts out of the bag and popping them into his mouth. After each peanut, he licks his fingers clean of dust methodically, fingers first, then his thumb.

He’s bluffing, of course. Greg could order him onto his knees, and Alex’s deadpan look would break, he’d giggle a bit. Ha, ha, shoulder slaps all round! And, obviously, it’s a terrible idea, even if he wasn’t. Which he is. 

“That would probably get us put on some sort of list,” Greg says. Is he a bit breathless, or is he just drunker than he thought? 

“Yes, it probably would,” says Alex. He looks up, and his eyes fucking _twinkle_. Greg doesn’t think he’s ever seen somebody twinkle at him until this very moment, but there it is. Alex is doing some sort of _thing_ with his face and Greg can’t stop looking at him. He takes a long drink from his pint to try to cool himself down and glances around the pub instead. It’s quieter than it was earlier, but there are still people here and there, hovering at the bar or gathered around tables. The lights are dimmed, but it’s not dark, either. Everybody who cared to look would be able to see Alex on his knees, his mouth on… on Greg. They’d know exactly what he was doing. They’d get kicked out, and there would be an article in the Daily Mail with some blurry pictures and a saucy, scandalised headline. 

When he looks back across the table, Alex is still looking at him with a mild expression on his face. For some reason, that always makes Greg want to grab him. Push him around, make him _react_. 

“Get yourself off,” he finds himself saying. His heart pounds stupidly in his chest. He feels lightheaded for a second, but tries to school his expression as he scans Alex for any signs that he’s irreparably fucked this.

For a moment, he thinks that Alex hasn’t reacted at all. That he’s just sitting there, staring at Greg with that same placid expression. Then he catches the slight movement of Alex’s shoulder, the way his body is shifting a bit with it, and he loses his breath for a second. 

“Fuck,” he says, without thinking. “You’re really doing it, you little slut.”

Alex jerks in his seat, his mouth falling open. A flush begins to creep up past the collar of his jumper, but the little rhythmic movements don’t stop. Greg is so, so tempted to lean down and look under the table. He can’t have opened his trousers - his other hand has been clutching his pint glass the whole time - so he must just be rubbing himself through them. He must have been at least a bit hard already, to be reacting like this so quickly. 

“You don’t even need to get your trousers undone, do you?” Greg says. He’s not shouting, but he’s not exactly being quiet either. Alex glances around them, then he shakes his head. He’s very, very red. “You’re going to come in your pants. That’s disgusting.”

Alex makes a noise. A little ‘hah’ of an exhalation, before quickly biting his lower lip to quiet himself.

“Anyone could see you,” Greg continues. He hardly even knows where these thoughts are coming from, but they just want to keep spilling out of him. “You’re fucking shameless, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” says Alex. 

Greg swallows. He wants to… god, he wants to see. Alex would let him, obviously. Alex would do anything Greg asked him to. 

“Show me,” he says. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own any more, and Alex breathes hard as he shifts around the table to show Greg what he’s doing, hand cupped over himself. As Greg watches him, he leans back a little and hooks two of his fingers under his waistband to adjust himself until the bare tip of his dick is poking obscenely out against his belly. It’s dark pink and a little shiny, and fuck, that looks absolutely filthy. Greg can hear the couple at the next table chatting about something they just saw at the cinema. Someone laughs loudly a few tables over. 

“Such a little fucking perv, aren’t you?”

Alex has stopped moving, and he’s breathing hard, his eyes half-lidded as he stares at Greg. Greg shifts uncomfortably in his seat, spreading his legs to try and ease a bit of the pressure on his own dick. His knee knocks into Alex’s, and Alex goes rigid, his fingers slipping on the pint glass he’s still gripping. 

He’s on the verge of coming, Greg realises. A heady rush of adrenaline goes through him. Alex is about to come on himself in a crowded pub because _Greg made him_.

He leans a bit closer, letting his hand fall as if by accident onto Alex’s knee. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Beg. I know you’re desperate to.”

“Please,” Alex says immediately. “Please. Let me.”

“Say it,” says Greg, squeezing his thigh. “Tell me you want to come in public like a filthy little boy.”

Alex gasps and squirms in his seat. “I want to come in public like a filthy little boy,” he says. Greg can feel the heat of him through the material of his trousers.

“Go on then. If you can’t control yourself.”

Alex doesn’t say anything, but he shudders and shifts in his seat, his eyes a little unfocussed but fixed on Greg. He’s barely touching himself, his hand pressed almost unmoving against the seam of his jeans, thumb slipping back and forth over the slick-shiny head of his cock. Greg’s so close that he can hear all the wet little gasps Alex is making, feel the way his thighs spread so easily to Greg’s touch. 

“You should be on your knees,” says Greg

“Yeah,” gasps Alex, and comes almost silently, moving his hand to catch it. If Greg couldn’t see it, wasn’t watching his face for it, he’d hardly be able to tell. Alex goes still, eyes sliding shut, his knee twitching reflexively under Greg’s hand. Then a pink flush spreads over his cheeks and up to his hairline.

He just sits there for a long moment. Greg half-expects him to grin, or wink, or crack some sort of rubbish joke to ease the tension, but Alex only blinks his eyes open to stare at him, and eventually it’s too much, to have all that attention focussed on him.

“That was… good,” he says eventually. “Very good, Alex.” He grabs a handful of napkins from the centre of the table and shoves them into Alex’s free hand. The one that’s not still holding his dick. Fuck.

All Alex has done is exactly what Greg told him to, but somehow Greg gets the weird feeling that he’s the one who’s been played. Alex gives him a slow grin, looking like the cat that got the fucking canary.

“Thank you, Greg,” he says.


End file.
